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Reconsidering Science Learning 1st Edition Eileen
Scanlon Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Eileen Scanlon
ISBN(s): 9780415328302, 0415328306
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Year: 2003
Language: english

Reconsidering Science Learning
Reconsidering Science Learning looks at science learning in a wide range of contexts.
A variety of issues are explored in terms of curriculum and science provision in
both schools and universities and for adult learners in distance education settings.
The reader is divided into four parts. Part 1 deals with the arguments put
forward for studying science and includes a discussion on what science learners
need to know about the nature of science and how decisions about what forms
science curricula are made. Part 2 includes chapters on the processes by which
science is learned. Part 3 focuses on opportunities for developing science learning
for all students, including extending access to science knowledge and increasing
students’ motivation for learning science. The fourth part deals with researching
science education.
Reconsidering Science Learning will be of particular interest to teachers on masters
courses in science education and academics with an interest in science education.
This is a companion book to Mediating Science Learning through Information and
Communications Technology, also published by RoutledgeFalmer.
Eileen Scanlon, Patricia Murphy, Jeff Thomas and Elizabeth Whitelegg are all
members of The Open University MSc in Science team.

SEH806 Contemporary Issues in Science Learning
The companion volume in this series is Mediating Science Learning Through Informa-
tion and Communications Technology (ICT) by Richard Holliman and Eileen Scanlon.
Both of the Readers are part of a course, Contemporary Issues in Science
Learning (SEH806), that is itself part of an MSc in Science Programme at the
Open University and also counts towards the MA in Education and the MA in
Online and Distance Education.
The Open University MSc in Science
The MSc in Science at the Open University is a relatively new ‘distance-taught’
programme that has been designed for students who want to explore broad scien-
tific topics at postgraduate level. It provides opportunities to pursue some of
science’s most pressing issues using the innovative teaching methods pioneered at
The Open University.
Structure of the MSc in Science
The MSc in Science is a modular programme that allows students to select modules
that best fit with their interests and professional goals. The Programme has two
main themes or ‘strands’: Science Studies and Frontiers in Medical Science.
Modules currently available
Science and the Public
Communicating Science
Imaging in Medicine
Molecules in Medicine
Issues in Brain and Behaviour
The Project Module
It is also possible to count other OU modules towards the MSc in Science and to
count MSc in Science modules towards other OU awards such as the MA in
Education.
OU supported learning
The MSc in Science Programme, in common with other OU programmes, provides
great flexibility. Students study at their own pace and in their own time, anywhere
in the European Union. They receive specially prepared study materials and
benefit from tutorial support (electronically and at day schools), thus offering them
the chance to work with other students.
How to apply
If you would like to register for this Programme, or find out more information, visit
our website http://www.open.ac.uk/science/msc. If you would like to find out more
general information about available courses, please contact the Course Informa-
tion and Advice Centre, PO Box 724, The Open University, Walton Hall, Milton
Keynes MK7 6ZS, UK (Telephone 01908 653231). Details can also be viewed on
our web pages: http://www.open.ac.uk/courses

Reconsidering
Science Learning
Edited by Eileen Scanlon,
Patricia Murphy, Jeff Thomas
and Elizabeth Whitelegg

First published 2004
by RoutledgeFalmer
11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE
Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada
by RoutledgeFalmer 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001
RoutledgeFalmer is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group
© 2004 The Open University
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or
utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now
known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in
any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
A catalog record has been requested
ISBN 0–415–32831–4 (pbk)
ISBN 0–415–32830–6 (hbk)
This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004.
ISBN 0-203-46402-8 Master e-book ISBN
ISBN 0-203-47072-9 (Adobe eReader Format)

Contents
List of illustrations ix
Sources xi
Preface xiii
PART 1
What is science? 1
1.1 What is science? Teaching science in secondary schools 3
MICHAEL REISS
1.2 School science, citizenship and the public understanding of science 13
EDGAR W. JENKINS
1.3 School science and its problems with scientific literacy 21
PETER FENSHAM
PART 2
Learning science 37
2.1 The child 41
SUSAN GREENFIELD
2.2 Constructing scientific knowledge in the classroom 58
ROSALIND DRIVER, HILARY ASOKO, JOHN LEACH,
EDUARDO MORTIMER AND PHILIP SCOTT
2.3 Transforming schools into communities of thinking and learning
about serious matters 74
ANN L. BROWN
2.4 Narratives of science 90
JEROME BRUNER

2.5 Preparing students for competent scientific practice: implications
of recent research in science and technology studies 99
MICHELLE K. MCGINN AND WOLFF-MICHAEL ROTH
2.6 Where’s the science? Understanding the form and function of
workplace science 118
PETER CHIN, HUGH MUNBY, NANCY HUTCHINSON, JENNY TAYLOR
AND FIONA CLARK
2.7 Laboratories 135
JOHN WALLACE AND WILLIAM LOUDEN, WITH CONTRIBUTIONS
BY BEVAN MCGUINESS, WOLFF-MICHAEL ROTH AND PENNY J. GILMER
PART 3
Opportunities for developing inclusive science learning 151
3.1 Transcending cultural borders: implications for science teaching 153
OLUGBEMIRO J. JEGEDE AND GLEN S. AIKENHEAD
3.2 Cultural perspectives on the teaching and learning of science 176
KENNETH TOBIN
3.3 Defining ‘science’ in a multicultural world: implications for
science education 195
WILLIAM W. COBERN AND CATHLEEN C. LOVING
3.4 Marginalization of socio-scientific material in science–
technology–society science curricula: some implications
for gender inclusivity and curriculum reform 215
GWYNETH HUGHES
PART 4
Researching science education 233
4.1 Science education: research, practice and policy 235
EDGAR W. JENKINS
4.2 Science education and environmental education 250
SUSAN BARKER
Index 263
viii Contents

Illustrations
Figures
1.1.1 What is the relationship between science and that which it
describes? 5
2.3.1 Schematic representation of the basic system of activities
underlying FCL practices 79
2.3.2 Cross-sectional and microgenetic data on the number of
coherent connections between invented solutions
in the design of an animal of the future 81
2.3.3 Idealized developmental corridor for the design of science
instruction 85
2.6.1 A depiction of the theoretical framework 123
2.6.2 Areas for the development of instructional strategies 132
3.3.1 Native American views about nature 202
3.3.2 Epistemological pyramid 209
Tables
2.6.1 The three versions of science 121
3.1.1 An overview of a cultural approach to science education 159

Sources
Where a chapter in this book is based on or is a reprint or revision of material
previously published elsewhere, details are given below, with grateful acknowl-
edgements to the original publishers.
Chapter 1.1 This is an edited version of a chapter originally published in Amos, S.
and Boohan, R. (eds) Teaching Science in Secondary Schools, pp. 40–54, Routledge-
Falmer (2002).
Chapter 1.2 Reprinted from International Journal of Science Education 21(7),
pp. 703–10, Taylor and Francis (1999).
Chapter 1.3 This is an edited version of a chapter originally published in
Levinson, R. and Thomas, J. (eds) Science Today, pp. 119–36, Routledge (1997).
Chapter 2.1 This is an edited version of Chapter 3 in The Private Life of the Brain,
pp. 51–76, Penguin (2000).
Chapter 2.2 This is an edited version of an article originally published in Educa-
tional Researcher 23(7), pp. 5–12, ©American Educational Research Association
(1994).
Chapter 2.3 This is an edited version of an article originally published in American
Psychologist 52(4), pp. 399–413, ©American Psychological Association (1997).
Chapter 2.4 This is an edited version of Chapter 6 in The Culture of Education,
pp. 115–29, Harvard UP (1996).
Chapter 2.5 This is an edited version of an article originally published in Educa-
tional Researcher, 28(3), pp.14–24, ©American Educational Research Association
(1999).
Chapter 2.6 Adapted from a paper presented at National Association for
Research in Science Teaching, New Orleans, April 2002.
Chapter 2.7 This is an edited version of Chapter 3 in Wallace, J. and Louden, W.
(eds) Dilemmas of Science Teaching: perspectives and problems of practice, pp. 36–55,
RoutledgeFalmer (2002).

Chapter 3.1 This is an edited version of an article originally published in Research
in Science and Technological Education 17(1), pp. 45–66, Carfax Publishing Ltd,
(1999).
Chapter 3.2 This is an edited version of a chapter originally published in Ogawa,
M. (ed.) Effects of Traditional Cosmology on Science Education, pp. 15–21, Faculty of
Education, Ibaraki University, Japan (1997).
Chapter 3.3 This is an edited version of an article originally published in Science
Education 85(1), pp. 50–67, ©Wiley (2001).
Chapter 3.4 This is an edited version of an article originally published in Journal of
Research in Science Teaching 37(5), pp. 426–40, ©Wiley (2000).
xii Reconsidering science learning

Preface
This collection of readings has been chosen to complement the Open University’s
course on contemporary issues in science learning, which is part of a Master’s
degree. This is the first of two volumes which together provide our students with a
set of readings for their use in the course. The other reader deals with the impact of
new technology on science learning.
These two volumes of readings form a small part of the Master’s module on
Contemporary Issues which is part of a Master’s course in Science being produced in
the Science Faculty of the Open University by a team from the Faculties of Science
and Education and Language Studies and the Institute of Educational Technology.
It is followed by students aiming for the Master’s degree in the Studies of Science, but
it also can act as a subsidiary course aiming for other Open University Master’s
awards in Education and Open and Distance Learning. Study materials provided by
the University also include a study commentary, set texts and CD-ROMs with a
library of additional paper and video material produced by the BBC. Students also
have access to the Internet and receive tutorials using computer conferencing.
Some of the material in this reader has been newly commissioned by the editors
for use in our course. Some chapters have been adapted and edited from previously
published papers in journals, conference proceedings and books. As a result, a
range of styles has been used by the authors which were appropriate for the original
contents. A range of referencing styles is in use in this volume so students of our
course may notice that they do not all conform to our course referencing style.
This is a collection of readings dealing with contemporary issues in science
learning, and issues and debates in extending access to science knowledge and
research in science education. It is divided into four parts which cover issues of
what science should be taught, theories of learning which have an implication for
science education, opportunities for developing science learning for all and
research in science education. The first part includes a discussion of the nature of
science and the relationships between science, citizenship and the public under-
standing of science and interactions between school science and its problems with
scientific literacy. The second part draws on a wide range of writing on learning
from biologists, educationalists, psychologists and science educators. It includes
discussions of learning communities for science, learning science in the workplace
and laboratory work. The third part explores different aspects of extending access

to science knowledge. This examines the implications of cultural perspectives on
learning science and the role of context in learning science, multicultural and
gender-inclusive approaches. The fourth part on researching science education
reflects on the status and methods used in such work.
The editors would like to thank the other members of the course team for their
help in selecting the articles. We would also like to thank Cheryl Newport, Carol
Johnstone, Gillian Riley and Pat Forster for their invaluable help in the production
of this volume. Opinions expressed in the articles are not necessarily those of the
course team or the Open University.
The editors of the volume would also like to thank the authors who produced
newly commissioned articles: Peter Chin, Hugh Munby, Nancy Hutchinson, Jenny
Taylor and Francis Clark, Queen’s University, Canada; Edgar Jenkins, University
of Leeds; and Susan Barker, University of Warwick, UK.
Eileen Scanlon
xii Preface

Part 1
What is science?
Jeffery N. Thomas
Those anxious about contemporary representations of science in the media dwell
on the presumed disparity between the image of science and the reality as imagined
by insiders. A concern with the representation of science in the classroom surely
needs to occupy as significant a place within the current educational debate. The
impressions of science acquired in early education are presumably especially
durable, shaping perceptions more fundamentally than the ephemeral and mixed
messages that often comprise informal learning. For this reason, the beguilingly
simple questions of ‘what science?’ and ‘for what purpose?’ need to preface any
contemporary debate about science education.
The readings in the first section provide this curtain-raiser to what follows,
touching on the heavily contested topics of the nature of science and the purposes
of science education. Their aim is to challenge and to energize the reader. Michael
Reiss’s stimulating and wide-ranging article ‘What is science?’ sets the scene, by
exploring how the richness, complexity and occasional contradiction that is
contemporary science might be represented in the classroom. In his view, today’s
science is far from rule-bound, unsullied and standardized; he argues for science
that is located within a cultural milieu, with the boundaries of the subject blurred
and tolerant of leakage.
Edgar Jenkins’s elegant article brings together two disciplines that have usually
occupied separate territories and traditions – educational and sociological perspec-
tives on how science understanding is handled. His pioneering work with David
Layton and colleagues showed that citizens lacking a formal knowledge base can be
wonderfully adept self-learners when they have the motivation and opportunity to
find out about aspects of science that have a particular bearing on their lives. The
plea that the science that young people learn has clearer social purpose and rele-
vance therefore seems unarguably clear. But the fact that many such science issues
are entwined with a host of attendant social contexts – including issues of trust,
expertise, media representation and institutional interests – requires of young
people a sensitivity to forms of knowledge and thinking far removed from the
narrow world of science. A science curriculum rich in ‘citizen science’ requires an
approach and content far removed from the insular and fact-rich lessons that are
still widespread today.
Anxieties about ‘what science?’ and ‘for what purpose?’ have a global relevance

and timeliness. Peter Fensham’s account of efforts urging the abandonment of
traditional curricula and the introduction of a genuine ‘science for all’ reports more
frustration than it does achievement. Given that the type of curriculum he advo-
cates shows a ‘warts and all’ science – richer for example in ‘the subjective, irra-
tional … (and) social construction’ – resistance to change might be expected from
the scientific community. His observation that the forces of educational conserva-
tism run much deeper is enlightening. Science educators themselves are seen to
have an ambiguous role. Our lack of research understanding about how students
experience the type of socio-scientific issues that characterize the new-style curric-
ulum suggests that moving ahead will itself be far from risk-free.
If readings are meant to inspire, provoke and unsettle, then these few chapters
will reveal how great is the need for change and how uncertain is the uncharted
path ahead.
2 Reconsidering science learning

1.1 What is science?
Teaching science in
secondary schools
Michael Reiss
I have found Ms … has had to deal with another problem: the history of science is
almost entirely the history of Western science, and Ms … has almost no knowledge
of European history since classical times. This is obviously a considerable drawback
in coming to a general view or coming to grips with many broader problems in the
development of science …
(Copied from a 1981 end-of-term supervision report of a student
from Pakistan doing the second-year undergraduate course in
History of Science at Cambridge University)
Who are scientists?
A while ago, I happened to see a new set of postage stamps produced in the UK, enti-
tled ‘Scientific achievements’ (issued 5 March 1991). It’s worth spending a few
moments imagining what you might expect (or hope!) to see on these stamps. Well,
whatever you thought, the Royal Mail produced four stamps under the heading Scien-
tific achievements’ with the captions ‘Faraday – Electricity’, ‘Babbage – Computer’,
‘Radar – Watson-Watt’ and ‘Jet Engine – Whittle’. I find it difficult to imagine a
narrower conception of what science is and who does it. The image seems to be that
real science is hard physics, with military applications, done by males who are white
and worked on their own between about 1820 and 1940. No wonder so many
students drop science at school as soon as they have the chance! Children come to
school science lessons with clear impressions of what science is, how it operates and
who does it (Driver et al. 1985; Osborne and Freyberg 1985). There is a limit to what
science teachers can realistically be expected to achieve in terms of challenging
social perceptions and changing received wisdom.
It seems sad that the Royal Mail could produce a set of stamps that portrayed such
a biased view of science. Stamps to feature scientists could convey the notion that
women do science, that science didn’t start in the nineteenth century and finish
around the time of the Second World War, that it isn’t a Western construct, that it is
done by people working in groups and that it permeates every area of life. […]

The nature of science
The popular view of what science is and how it proceeds probably goes something
like this:
Science consists of a body of knowledge about the world. The facts that
comprise this knowledge are derived from accurate observations and careful
experiments that can be checked by repeating them. As time goes on, scientific
knowledge steadily progresses.
Such a view persists, not only among the general public, but also among science
teachers and scientists despite the fact that most historians of science, philosophers
of science, sociologists of science and science educationalists hold it to be, at best,
simplified and misleading and, at worst, completely erroneous (Latour 1987;
Woolgar 1988; Wellington 1989; Harding 1991).
It is not too much of a caricature to state that science is seen by many as the way
to truth. Indeed, a number of important scientists have encouraged such a view by
their writings and interviews (e.g. Peter Atkins and Richard Dawkins). It is gener-
ally assumed that the world ‘out there’ exists independently of the particular scien-
tific methodology used to study it (Figure 1.1.1). The advance of science then
consists of scientists discovering eternal truths that exist independently of them
and of the cultural context in which these discoveries are made. All areas of life are
presumed amenable to scientific inquiry. Truth is supposed to emerge unambigu-
ously from experiment like Pallas Athene, the goddess of wisdom, springing mature
and unsullied from the head of Zeus. This view of science is mistaken for a number
of reasons, which I now want to discuss.
Scientists have to choose on what to work
What scientists ‘choose’ to work on is controlled partly by their background as indi-
viduals and partly by the values of the society in which they live and work. Most
scientific research is not pure but applied. In particular, approximately one half of
all scientific research funding is provided for military purposes. To give just one
specific example of the way society determines the topics on which scientists
should work: the 1980s saw a significant reduction in Great Britain in the level of
research into systematics, taxonomy and nomenclature (the classification, identifi-
cation and naming of organisms). This was a direct result of changes in government
funding which, for instance, required the Natural History Museum in London, the
major UK centre for such research, to generate much of its own income. As a
result, the number of scientists working there in these disciplines more than halved
as such scientists generate very little income.
Now, my point is not specifically to complain at the demise of systematics,
taxonomy and nomenclature in the UK, but to point out that society and individual
scientists have to choose on what to work. To a very large extent that choice is not

determined on purely scientific criteria (if such criteria exist), but by political machi-
nations and by the priorities (some would describe them as quirks) of funding bodies.
Scientists do not discover the world out there as it is
Scientists approach their topics of study with preconceptions. There is no such
thing as an impartial observation. In the classroom, this is seen to be the case every
time a group of pupils is asked, for the first time, to draw some cells or sulphur crys-
tals under the microscope. It isn’t possible until you know what to draw. Unless you
know that a leaf of pondweed consists of numerous small, brick-like structures, all
you can see is a mass of green with lines and occasional air bubbles. […]
Instances are legion where we can look back and see how scientists have uncon-
sciously interpreted what they have seen in the light of their cultural heritage. In
his book Metaphors of Mind, Robert Sternberg points out that much of the present
confusion surrounding the concept of intelligence stems from the variety of stand-
points from which the human mind can be viewed (Sternberg 1990). The
geographic metaphor is based on the notion that a theory of intelligence should
provide a map of the mind. This view dates back at least to Gall, an early nineteenth-
century German anatomist and perhaps the most famous of phrenologists. Gall
investigated the topography of the head, looking and feeling for tiny variations in
the shape of the skull. According to him, a person’s intelligence was to be discerned
What is science? 5
Figure 1.1.1 What is the relationship between science and that which it describes?
(Copyright: Chris Madden.)

in the pattern of their cranial bumps. A second metaphor, the computational
metaphor, envisions the mind as a computing device and analogizes the processes
of the mind to the operations of a computer. Other metaphors discussed by Stern-
berg include the biological metaphor, the epistemological metaphor, the anthropo-
logical metaphor, the sociological metaphor and the systems metaphor. The point
is that what scientists see and the models they construct to mirror reality depend
very much on where their point of view is.
A clear example of how the work that scientists do is inevitably affected by who
they are is provided by Jane Goodall’s seminal (if that is not too sexist a term!)
research on chimpanzee behaviour. When she first arrived to study the chimpan-
zees on the banks of Lake Tanganyika, the game warden who took her round made
a mental note that she wouldn’t last more than six weeks. She has stayed for forty
years, producing the definitive accounts of chimpanzee social organization and
behaviour in her fascinating and moving books In the Shadow of Man (van Lawick-
Goodall 1971) and The Chimpanzees of Gombe: Patterns of Behavior (Goodall 1986).
An important point about Jane Goodall is that she had no formal training in
ethology (the science of animal behaviour), having trained as a secretary after
leaving school. As she herself wrote, ‘I was, of course, completely unqualified to
undertake a scientific study of animal behaviour’ (van Lawick-Goodall 1971: 20).
However, she spent some time with the celebrated palaeontologist Louis Leakey and
his wife, Mary, on one of their annual expeditions to Olduvai Gorge on the Serengeti
plains. Louis Leakey became convinced that Goodall was the person he had been
looking for for twenty years – someone who was so fascinated by animals and their
behaviour that they would be happy to spend at least two years studying chimpanzees
in the wild. Leakey was particularly interested in the chimpanzees on the shores of
Lake Tanganyika as the remains of prehistoric people had often been found on lake
shores and he thought it possible that an understanding of chimpanzee behaviour
today might shed light on the behaviour of our Stone Age ancestors.
Goodall couldn’t believe that Leakey was giving her the chance to do what she
most wanted to do – watch chimpanzees in their natural habitat. She felt that her
lack of training would disqualify her. But, as she later wrote:
Louis, however, knew exactly what he was doing. Not only did he feel that a
university training was unnecessary, but even that in some ways it might have
been disadvantageous. He wanted someone with a mind uncluttered and unbi-
ased by theory who would make the study for no other reason than a real desire
for knowledge; and, in addition, someone with a sympathetic understanding of
animal behaviour.
(van Lawick-Goodall 1971: 20)
Now the point, of course, is not that Jane Goodall could approach chimpanzees
with a mind ‘uncluttered and unbiased by theory’ but that the clutter and theory in
her mind was crucially distinct from that in someone who emerged from a univer-
sity course in ethology. In the 1960s, one of the great heresies of academic ethology
was to be anthropomorphic – to treat non-humans as if they had human attributes

and feelings. That is precisely what Jane Goodall did and it allowed fundamentally
new insights into chimpanzee behaviour. A flavour of her approach can be
obtained by reading the following quote:
One day, when Flo was fishing for termites, it became obvious that Figan and
Fifi, who had been eating termites at the same heap, were getting restless and
wanted to go. But old Flo, who had already fished for two hours, and who was
herself only getting about two termites every five minutes, showed no signs of
stopping. Being an old female, it was possible that she might continue for
another hour at least. Several times Figan had set off resolutely along the track
leading to the stream, but on each occasion, after repeatedly looking back at
Flo, he had given up and returned to wait for his mother.
Flint, too young to mind where he was, pottered about on the heap, occasion-
ally dabbling at a termite. Suddenly Figan got up again and this time approached
Flint. Adopting the posture of a mother who signals her infant to climb on to her
back, Figan bent one leg and reached back his hand to Flint, uttering a soft
pleading whimper. Flint tottered up to him at once, and Figan, still whimpering,
put his hand under Flint and gently pushed him on his back. Once Flint was
safely aboard, Figan, with another quick glance at Flo, set off rapidly along the
track. A moment later Flo discarded her tool and followed.
(van Lawick-Goodall 1971: 114–15)
Other writers at the time did not give names to their animals; nor did they use
language like ‘getting restless’, ‘wanted to go’, ‘set off resolutely’ and ‘pottered
about’; nor did they impute to their subjects the ability consciously to manipulate
one another.
Apart from her lack of formal training, there is another factor about Jane
Goodall that may well be significant. She is a woman. The longest-running studies
on animal behaviour have all been carried out by women including: Jane Goodall
on chimpanzees (1960 to present); Dian Fossey on gorillas (1966 to 1985 when she
was murdered, probably because of her dedication to the gorillas); and Fiona
Guinness on red deer (1972 to present). All three worked/work quite exceptionally
long hours with what can only be described as total dedication. In 1978 and 1979, I
spent a couple of months working alongside Fiona Guinness. On average, she
worked fourteen hours a day, seven days a week.
My point is not that research scientists ought to work this long, nor that only
women can show the empathy with animals that these three did or do. Rather, it is
that the personal and social pressures that shaped Jane Goodall, Dian Fossey and
Fiona Guinness were crucial to the type of science that they carried out or do carry
out. And this is true for all scientists. It’s just that it is easier to see in these three
cases. Donna Haraway, in her book Primate Visions: Gender, Race and Nature in the
World of Modern Science, argues that scientific practice is story-telling. The work
that primatologists do is moulded by the environment in which they operate and by
the sort of people they are, so that the stories that they tell reflect the social
agendas that surround them (Haraway 1989).
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The decoration of the interior included the use of antique columns,
which were sometimes adapted to their new place by cutting down or
removing the bases. The walls above the nave arcading or entablature were
adorned with mosaics, which also embellished the space above the Arch of
Triumph and the semi-dome of the apse. The floors were covered with
geometric patterns of marble sliced from columns and other antique
fragments.
The principal examples of basilican churches, still existing in Rome, are
St. Paul-without-the-walls, S. Clemente and S. Maria Maggiore. The
first named is of modern construction, completed in 1854, but preserves the
plan and dimensions of the older church which was destroyed by fire in
1823. It had been begun in 380 by Theodosius, on a plan closely following
that of the old St. Peter’s, except that the transepts of the bema project less
and the atrium was abandoned, leaving only the narthex. Its construction
and embellishment were continued by other emperors and by many popes,
the munificence of the latter being commemorated in a series of portrait
medallions of the popes which extends in a band above the arcade-arches
on each side of the nave. The wall space above them is veneered with rare
marbles, enclosing panels filled with paintings representing incidents in the
life of St. Paul. Amid the somewhat extreme sumptuousness of the interior a
feeling of the older character of a basilican church is preserved in the
mosaics of the fifth century which adorn the arch of triumph, and in those
of the apse which date from the early part of the thirteenth century.
S. Maria Maggiore presents an original basilican plan of nave and
single aisles, from each of which during the Renaissance was built out a
square side chapel, surmounted by domes, giving the plan the form of a
cross. But the interior of the nave dates from the time of Sixtus III in the
fourth century and shows on each side a series of Ionic columns, supporting
an entablature. Above this, as also over the arch of triumph, are mosaics of
the fifth century.
The Church of S. Clemente is notable for the retention of the atrium
and also for the termination of the aisles in apses, a feature which suggests
Byzantine influence.
Circular and Polygonal Plans.—In addition to the basilican buildings
of this period were some which involved a circular or polygonal plan,
suggested probably by the circular temples and tombs of the Romans. They

were applied in the early Christian era both to tombs, which in some cases
were afterward converted into churches, and to baptistries. The latter were
independent buildings, so called from their use at first solely for the
sacrament of baptism. In later times, however, it became the custom to
place the font inside the church; yet as late as the eleventh century was
erected the famous Baptistry of Florence, in which even to this day every
child born within the city is baptised.
The examples in Rome of circular or polygonal buildings are the
Baptistry which forms part of the group of buildings of S. John Lateran,
the Tomb of S. Constanza, the daughter of Constantine, which was
converted into a church in 1256, and the church of S. Stefano Rotondo.
The general character of the Roman tomb was a circular mass,
superimposed on a square podium. The cylindrical mass was sometimes
decorated with pilasters, supporting an entablature, and occasionally was
surrounded by a peristyle, while its roof was apt to be conical.
In early Christian architecture this principle of construction was
developed. The peristyle was enclosed by outer walls, and the lower part of
the walls of the cylindrical mass was replaced by columns. Thus, in the
Baptistry of S. John, which has been called the Baptistry of Constantine,
the conical roof is supported by a circle of eight columns, in two stories.
The Tomb of S. Constanza has a dome which is supported on twelve
pairs of granite columns, while the wall of the circular aisle is inset with
sixteen recesses, alternately apsidal and rectangular in shape, one of the
latter being opened through to form the entrance. The sarcophagus of the
saint which formerly occupied one of the niches, is now in the Vatican
Museum. Its sides are carved with genii gathering grapes—a motive which
is also represented in the mosaics that adorn the vaulting of the church’s
circular aisle.
S. Stefano Rotondo, though much reduced from its original size, is said
to be still the largest circular church in existence. The wall of the cylinder,
surmounted by a wooden conical roof, is supported on a circular
entablature, carried by antique columns. It was surrounded, when built by
Simplicius in the fifth century, by double circular aisles, covered by a
sloping roof. The latter was supported by columns and arches, while the
external wall was decorated with pilasters. Traces of these are still apparent;
otherwise the outer aisle has disappeared and the present exterior represents

the walling up of the spaces between the columns. This was done by
Nicholas V in the fifteenth century, by which time the edifice, once richly
decorated with marble veneers and mosaics, had fallen into decay. Its lateral
walls are now covered with horribly naturalistic scenes of martyrdom,
executed at the end of the seventeenth century.
Syrian Examples.—Syria has disclosed to explorers—of whom the late
Marquis of Vogüé and Dr. H. C. Butler of the American Archæological
Expedition have been the foremost—a number of interesting monuments,
both civic and religious, erected between the third and eighth centuries.
While details of moulding and ornament appear to have been copied from
those of Roman remains, the methods of construction were worked out by
the builders themselves. They seem to have retained the Phœnician
preference for using the largest stones that could be quarried, transported,
and put in place. Thus, arches were frequently carved out of a single stone,
and when voussoirs were used, they were either few in number or, if
numerous, of great height and depth. Large slabs of stone were also
employed for roofing, especially in houses. In imitating antique details the
architects appear to have had little if any feeling for their constructional
origin or meaning; the capital and half the shaft of a column, for example,
being carved out of one piece of stone, while the remainder of the shaft and
the base were cut out of another. On the other hand, they developed for
themselves certain fine features of construction, as for instance, in the
arcading of their basilican churches, in which the columns were sometimes
replaced by large rectangular piers, carrying arches of great width. An
example of this impressive method is found in the interior of the Church of
Kalb-Lauzeh. This corresponds with the larger Church of Turmanin, the
western façade of which shows a very independent spirit of design. It has a
broad arched entrance, flanked by two square towers, connected over the
doorway by an open gallery, constructed with columns.
A corresponding inventiveness marked their use of the basilican plan. A
fine example is the large Church of S. Simeon Stylites at Kalat-Seman.
The nucleus of the plan is an octagonal court, open to the sky, in the centre
of which stood the pillar on which the saint spent thirty years of his life.
This court forms the intersection or crossing of four rectangular wings,
arranged in shape of a cross, each one of which has a basilican form, the
nave and aisles of the eastern one terminating in apses.

Another very interesting plan occurs in the Cathedral at Borah. It
presents a circle inscribed in a square, in the angles of which are apsidal
recesses projecting from the circle. Moreover, from the east side of the
square project three short rectangles, terminating in apses, which suggest
the prolongation of the nave and aisles that have been interrupted by the
circle. Nothing but the foundations of this church remain. Meanwhile, the
Church of S. George at Esrah shows a similar plan and is surmounted by a
high elliptical dome. It is conjectured that these two churches were the
prototypes of S. Sergius, Constantinople, and S. Vitale at Ravenna, which
will be discussed later, and of many corresponding churches of Byzantine
architecture.
Ravenna.—In the development of early Christian architecture a very
interesting part was played by Ravenna. For this city, situated on the
Adriatic (though the sea has since receded to a distance of six miles), was
the chief port by which the trade of Constantinople or Byzantium entered
Italy. Accordingly some of the tombs and churches present a fusion of
Byzantine and Syrian influences with Roman. The change from the
basilican type is especially marked in the character of the plan and by the
adoption of domes.
Thus the Baptistry of Ravenna is an octagonal structure, surmounted by
a dome of hollow tiles. The Tomb of Galla Placidia is cruciform in plan
with a lantern raised over the crossing or intersection of the arms of the
cross. The lantern is pierced with four windows and surmounted by a dome,
supported on pendentives—a method of construction, peculiarly Byzantine,
which will be considered presently.
When Theodoric the Great, King of the Ostro-Goths and ruler of
Northern Italy, selected Ravenna as his capital, he built the Church of S.
Apollinare Nuovo, importing twenty-four marble columns from
Constantinople and employing Byzantine artists and artisans. The plan is
basilican, though the atrium and apse have been removed by subsequent
alterations, but the interior is richly embellished with Byzantine mosaics.
The latter also adorn the larger basilican Church of S. Apollinare-in-
Classe, so called from its being situated near the port. Its columns also are
distinguished by the peculiarly Byzantine feature of the impost block, to be
described later.

After the death of Theodoric in 536 the Emperor Justinian, having
through his general, Belisarius, routed the Goths from the country, made
Ravenna the political capital of Italy, under the authority of an exarch. Then
was built, probably as Court Church, the famous example of Byzantine
influence, the Church of S. Vitale. We will return to this after a
consideration of what is involved in the Byzantine style.
Byzantine.—The term Byzantine is applied to the style of architecture
gradually developed in Byzantium after Constantine, in A.D. 324, transferred
the capital of the Roman Empire to that city. Its distinctive features are the
use of brick and stone in place of concrete; the use of imposts in connection
with columns and arches; the character of the carved ornament applied to
surfaces and, most important of all, a system of covering rectangular spaces
with domes. It reached its highest point of development under the Emperor
Justinian, between the years 527 and 565.
The style was the result of evolution; a product of the combination of
principles of construction derived from Roman, Early Christian and Syrian
architecture, and from the traditional methods of the Iran builders of
Assyria; affected in matters of decoration by the luxurious taste of the
Orient.
The favourite material of Byzantine builders was brickwork; the bricks
being one and one-half inches in thickness, like the Roman, and laid
between layers of mortar of similar thickness. In the case of cornices the
bricks were moulded to the required contours and when used for the shafts
of columns were circular in outline. The mortar was composed of sand,
lime, and crushed pottery, tiles, or bricks. Except in the case of marble
columns which were cut and put in place by masons, the whole of the
preliminary work was done by bricklayers who constructed the entire
“carcass” of the building. When this

FROM THE INTERIOR OF SAN VITALE, RAVENNA
Showing the “Impost” above Column, and Decoration.
Pp. 202-204, 207
TOMB OF GALLA PLACIDIA, RAVENNA
P. 201

DIAGRAM
Showing How the
Pendentives,
Resting on Four
Angles of a Square,
Provide a Circular
Base for the Dome.
P. 205
SECTION OF SS. SERGIUS
AND BACCHUS,
CONSTANTINOPLE
Showing Fluted or
Melon-Shaped Dome,
Supported on Eight
Arches and “Squinches.”
Note Lights Round Dome.
P. 206
SECTION OF S. SOPHIA, CONSTANTINOPLE
Showing Pendentive Dome. P. 207. Small Diagram, at Right, Shows How a Dome Was Made
to Rest on Eight Piers Enclosing an Octagon, by Niches or Squinches.

EXTERIOR OF S. SOPHIA
Showing the Immense Buttresses That Sustain the Thrust of the Dome. Minarets Added
Later Are of Characteristically Turkish Type. P. 207
INTERIOR OF S. SOPHIA
Showing Pendentives and Three of the Dome Arches (Two of Which Are Closed and
Pierced with Lights). Note also Ring of Lights Round Neck of Dome. Pp. 202, 205, 207

PLAN OF S.
SOPHIA
P. 208
PLAN OF S. MARK’S,
VENICE
P. 209
EXTERIOR OF S. MARK’S, VENICE
Showing Gothic Details Imposed on Byzantine Design. P. 209
had dried and settled, the masons and the decorators completed the work,
by overlaying the walls, domes, and pediments of the interior with marble
or mosaics.
The floors were paved with richly coloured marbles, in opus sectile or
opus Alexandrinum. Marble, also, cut in thin veneers and arranged so that
their veining produced symmetrical designs, was applied to the walls.
Marble, again, but incised with carved ornament, covered the soffits of the
arches, the archivolts, and spandrels, while the vaulting was resplendent
with mosaics, composed of figures and ornaments, executed in enamelled
glass upon a background of gold or blue or, more rarely, pale green.
Colour was pre-eminently the motive of the interior decoration and to
this end carved work was subordinated. The ornament was in very low
relief, spreading over the surface in intricate patterns, that suggest the
delicate enrichment of lace. Mouldings were replaced by bands of mosaic
or marble, carved or smooth. The chief motive of the carved ornamentation
was the mingling of the acanthus and anthemion. The treatment of both was
rather Hellenic than Roman; the foliage having pointed ends; but it was
deeply channelled and drilled with deep holes at the springing of the leaves.
In fact, the use of the drill as well as the chisel was characteristic of
Byzantine carving and emphasises the suggestion of the ornament being

raised rather than, as in Roman decoration, applied. Corresponding to the
general flatness of the ornament is the constraint of the contours of the
mouldings, suggestive of Asiatic languor and in marked contrast to the
vigorous profiles of classic architecture. The impression, indeed, of the
whole scheme of decoration is rather one of soft richness, as carving melts
into colour and colour deepens and glows and finally passes into the gold or
depths of azure of the vaulting.
When the supply of antique columns was exhausted the Byzantine
architects began to imitate them, but soon departed from the classic type. In
certain cases the capital retained something of its derivation from the Ionic
or Corinthian styles; but gradually a new type was evolved, which was
distinguished by being convex to the outside rather than concave. The
motive appears to have been to give additional support to the arch, for
which purpose an impost was, as the name implies, “placed upon” the
capital. It consists of a block, which projects beyond the edges of the capital
to fit the extra thickness of the wall and may represent, as has been
suggested, the survival of a part of the architrave of the discarded
entablature. In the decoration of the capitals the foliage was sometimes
enclosed in frames of interlace, or the latter took the form of a basket, on
which birds are perching.
Pendentive Dome.—We have now to consider the most characteristic
feature of Byzantine architecture—the Dome. Briefly, in the 200 years that
divided Justinian from Constantine the Byzantine architects perfected a
principle of dome construction by which they crowned a square plan with
the circle of a dome.
The Romans confined their domes to circular or polygonal buildings.
Meanwhile they had worked out the construction of groined vaulting upon
four supports. The Byzantine achievement was to make four supports carry
a dome. It was accomplished by developing the element of construction—
the pendentive.
We have already noted the bas-relief found at Koyunjik, which shows
that the Assyrians understood the crowning of small square buildings with
domes. While actual examples have perished, the tradition of this
construction seems to have survived in the East. For in the third century
A.D., when the Persians established the Sassanian Empire under the impulse
of a movement that sought to restore the ideals and habits of the old

national life, the builders erected domes in the palaces of Serbistan and
Firuzabad.
The method they adopted was to bridge each angle of the square, at
some distance below the top, with a small arch. On these they erected two
small arches that projected beyond the face of the original arch and
accordingly extended the width of the bridge. They continued this process
of superimposing tier upon tier of arches, until the bridge was level with the
top of the square, by which time the latter was transformed into an octagon.
Then, by inserting a corbel or bracket in each angle of the octagon and
taking advantage of the thickness of the masonry, they were able to adjust a
dome to the structure. This system of dome-support, we shall find, was
adopted in Gothic architecture, where the arches are called squinches.
Another method of dome-support, found in the Mosque of Damascus
and frequently employed in the churches of Asia Minor, was to bridge the
angle with a semi-circular niche.
Meanwhile what the Byzantine architects developed was a geometrically
exact system of converting the square into a circle by means of concave
triangular members that are specifically called pendentives.
The character and function of a pendentive may be readily grasped by a
practical experiment. Cut an orange into two hemispheres. Lay the flat of
one on four reels, placed at the four angles of a square, inscribed within the
circle. These reels represent the piers on which the pendentives are to be
constructed. Now by four perpendicular incisions of the knife cut off the
segments of the hemisphere that project beyond the square. The lateral
spaces between the piers will now be spanned by four arches. Finally, a
trifle above the top of the arches, make a horizontal cut, removing the upper
part of the hemisphere. The rind which remains represents the four
pendentives. The flesh inside of it may be likened to the timber centering
used in the construction of the pendentives and, now that the latter are
completed, may be removed. Remove also the flesh from inside the upper
part of the hemisphere. It will then be a hollow cap, which you can replace
on the top of the pendentives. You now have an instance of a dome and
pendentives included in a single hemisphere. More usually, however, the
architect makes the curve of the dome different from that of the
pendentives. Frequently, too, to give the dome superior distinction, he

constructs a cylindrical wall on the circle of the pendentives, and on this
drum, as it is called, elevates his dome.
Scientifically stated: “If a hemisphere be cut by five planes, four
perpendicular to its base and bounding a square inscribed therein, and the
fifth parallel to the base and tangent to the semi-circular intersection made
by the first four, there will remain of the original surface only four
triangular spaces bounded by arcs of circles. These are called pendentives.”
(Professor Hamlin.)
The first church built by Justinian was SS. Sergius and Bacchus in
Constantinople. The part dedicated to the latter saint—a small basilica—
was destroyed by the Turks. The remainder presents the plan of a rectangle
enclosing an octagon on which rests a dome of a curious, fluted, melon
shape.
A few years later was erected the church of S. Vitale in Ravenna,
probably as the Court Church. Its plan is an octagon within an octagon; the
inner one being surmounted by a dome.
The domical arrangement of both these churches may have been
originally derived from the Pantheon, modified by the example in Rome,
of what is called the Temple of Minerva Medica, though it was probably a
nymphæum. This building is decagonal with niches projecting from nine of
the sides, while the tenth provides the entrance. The dome, of concrete
ribbed with tiles, is built over an inner decagon of ten piers carrying ten
arches. These in turn support a decagonal drum, pierced with windows, the
angles at the top being filled in with rudimentary pendentives. The same
principle of construction reappears in both S. Sergius and S. Vitale; the
dome of the latter being composed, for the sake of lightness, of
earthenware, amphora-shaped pots, the bottom of one being fixed in the lip
of another. It is sheathed on the outside with a wooden roof.
This Church of S. Vitale became the model on which Charlemagne
based his domical church at Aix-la-Chapelle, which was built as a royal
tomb, A.D. 796-814, and was afterward used as the crowning-place of the
Emperors of the West.
S. Sophia.—Finally, the pendentive system was fully developed in
Justinian’s church in Constantinople dedicated to the Holy Wisdom—

Hagia Sophia, called, though erroneously, S. Sophia. It marks the highest
development of the Byzantine genius for domical construction.
The architects were Anthemius of Tralles and Isidorus of Miletus, who
began the work in 532 and finished it in 537. The plan shows four mighty
piers, 25 feet square, set at the angles of a square of 107 feet. These support
four arches and intermediate pendentives of noble height, the apex of the
dome being 175 feet from the pavement. For the original dome, having
collapsed in 555, was replaced by a higher one, lighted by the introduction
of forty circular-headed windows around the spring of the curve; an
arrangement not only excellent in admitting light to the interior, but also as
wonderfully impressive in its way as the single eye of the Pantheon. Rows
of small circular headed windows are also pierced in the screens which fill
in the north and south arches.
Abutting on the east and west arches of this central mass are semi-
domes, supported upon the central piers and two others. And from these
project, as in S. Sergius and S. Vitale, small semicircular domes, sustained
by an upper and lower story of arcades. Thus was created a vast oval-ended
hall, 267 feet long by 107, from every part of which the summit of the dome
is visible.
Outside this central feature are two side-aisles, each having two stories,
separated from the nave by arcading and formed of a series of columns and
vaulting. As in all Early Christian and Byzantine churches which have
upper and lower galleries, the former were occupied by women
worshippers. The outer walls on the north and south sides, as the plan
shows, are reinforced by immense buttresses, 25 feet wide and 75 long,
which appear on the outside of the buildings like huge pylons. On the inside
they are pierced with arches on each story. These buttresses withstand the
thrust of the dome which is reinforced on the east and west by the semi-
domes.
The edifice, which occupies practically a square, is approached on the
west side by a narthex of magnificent proportions, 200 feet long by 30
wide, which is divided like the aisles into an upper and lower story. So far
“the plan resembles that of S. Sergius, if the latter were cut in half and a
dome on pendentives inserted over the intervening square and the whole
doubled in size.” In front of the narthex, however, extends a second one,
opening, as in some of the basilican churches, into an atrium.

The exterior walls are faced with alternate courses of brick and stone and
the domes, all of which are visible, are covered with a sheathing of lead.
S. Mark’s, Venice.—S. Sophia is a marvel not only of construction but
also of unity of design. It is in this respect, among others, that it is superior
to S. Mark’s in Venice, which was erected by Byzantine builders at the end
of the eleventh century. Venice, like Ravenna, was in close touch with
Constantinople and when she determined to build a cathedral to her patron
saint, to replace an earlier basilican church destroyed by fire, it was natural
that she should look to that city for the character of the design as well as for
artists and artisans to execute it. The actual model was the Church of the
Holy Apostles, in Constantinople, founded by Constantine, rebuilt by
Justinian, and destroyed by the Turks in 1463 to make room for the mosque
of Sultan Mahomet II.
The plan is a Greek cross, that is to say, a cross with the four parts of
practically equal length, grouped around a central square. Each of the five
divisions is crowned by a dome, supported on pendentives and reinforced
by transverse barrel vaults. The transept and choir domes are slightly
smaller than the ones over the crossing and the nave, because of the
restrictions of space caused by the chapel of S. Isadore in the north transept,
the Ducal Palace on the south, and the retention of the apse of the ancient
basilica. Originally all the domes were sheathed externally with lead, but at
a later date were covered with the lead-sheathed wooden lanterns now
existing. With their high-pitched curves and ornamental terminals they
represent a serious deviation from the true Byzantine style.
A similar departure from the latter is exhibited in the west façade. This
was completed in the fifteenth century and involves a curious mixture of
Orientalism and fanciful Gothic with features, such as the clusters of
columns in two tiers, flanking the five entrances, which serve no structural
purpose and have no architectural justification. They are purely picturesque.
But S. Mark’s was the city’s shrine, to which each succeeding century
added some embellishment and often with more zeal than discretion.
It is the interior rather that commands our admiration. For
notwithstanding certain distractions, even here, of later debased styles of
mosaic, enough of the tenth and eleventh century embellishments remain to
dignify the decoration. And in no other building in the world is there so

marvellous an ensemble of coloured marbles, alabaster, and glass mosaics;
or such subtleties, delicacies, and complexities of light and shadow.
Greece and Russia.—In Greece and Russia the Byzantine has continued
to be the official style of the Greek Church. In Russia, however, many
fantastic elements have been introduced, particularly the bulbous form of
the domes.
As an example of domestic Byzantine architecture may be mentioned the
Monastery of Mount Athos on a promontory of Saloniki, overlooking the
Ægean Sea.
“In Armenia are also interesting examples of late Armeno-Byzantine
architecture, showing applications to exterior carved detail of elaborate
interlaced ornament, looking like a re-echo of Celtic M.SS. illumination,
itself, no doubt, originating in Byzantine traditions.” (Hamlin.)
CHAPTER III
MUHAMMEDAN, ALSO CALLED SARACENIC CIVILISATION
The introduction at this point of Muhammedan or Saracenic architecture
unfortunately breaks the continuity of the evolution of Early Christian and
Byzantine architecture into the Romanesque and thence into the Gothic.
Accordingly, some writers reserve this chapter until the end of their book,
treating it as an independent interlude.
That method, on the other hand, has the disadvantage of not giving the
subject its proper place in the sequence of history; and since an important
motive of the present volume is to represent the growth of architecture as
the product of changing conditions of civilisation, it seems more in
accordance with this aim to let the conditions govern the order in which the
architectural phases are presented. So, in the inevitable choice between two
evils of arrangement we will select that which, from our point of view,
seems to be the least.
For it is true that Muhammedan or Saracenic civilisation represents but
an interlude in the progress of Christian civilisation. What, however, would
have been the outcome, if Charles Martel, in 732, had not crushed the
advance of the Muhammedans into France? They might have fastened upon
the latter as they had upon Spain, the north of Africa, Egypt, Syria. From

France they might have descended upon Italy, and gradually drawn tighter
the circle of their conquest until the Western as well as the Eastern Empire
was entirely in their grasp. It needs but a little effort of imagination to
realise that on the issue of the battle of Poictiers hung the fortunes of
Europe; the survival of European civilisation and possibly the continuance
of Christianity.
In fact, what was trembling in the balance was the extension of a new
and vigorous power over a social order that, except in the Frankish
kingdom, had grown more and more disintegrated and feeble. For in the
decline of Rome even her conquerors had been involved; the various other
Gothic nations in adapting the decay of her system had been corrupted by it.
The only unifying and uplifting force that glimmered amid the general
prostration was that of the Church, which might have been engulfed in
Islamism if the Franks had not prevailed at Poictiers.
For in the present day we associate Islamism with the unprogressive
nations, whereas in the eighth century it was the symbol of progressiveness.
Its spiritual ideal was, at least, as high as that of Christianity; while its
intellectual and material ideals were superior to those of Europe.
Shall we speak of Saracenic civilisation or Saracenic architecture as
some do, or follow the example of others who substitute the term
Muhammedan? The former word was probably derived from the Latin
Saraceni, which was employed by the Romans to designate the Bedouins
who roamed a part of the Syro-Arabian desert, and committed depredations
on the frontier of the Empire. In the Middle Ages Saracen came to be used
as a general term for Moslems, especially those who had penetrated into
Spain. This latter use is too narrow, while the general use conveys no
meaning.
Muhammedan, on the other hand, implies a follower of Muhammed or
Mahomet, and it was the oneness of faith that first united the Arab
tribesmen and in time gave a uniformity of ideal to their spread of conquest
from the Pillars of Hercules to Northern India. While the character of the
civilisation varied throughout this vast empire, being coloured by local and
racial characteristics that reacted on the styles of architecture, it was
everywhere impregnated with one belief. There is no god but Allah and
Muhammed is his prophet.

Muhammed was born about 570 in Mecca, in the Arabian peninsula; a
place hitherto of little importance, which had a cube-shaped sanctuary, the
Kaaba, enshrining a Black Stone. It was the token or fetish of some god of
nature; for some kind of nature worship, including the worship of the Sun,
Moon, and Earth seems to have been the traditional religion of Arabia.
Meanwhile, Judaism had penetrated into the country and Christianity had
followed. Each figured in Muhammed’s imagination as a world religion.
Both professed one God. One had its prophets; the other, its Messiah, and
both its book of inspired revelation.
Accordingly, when the vision of Muhammed embraced the idea of
founding at once a new nation and a new religion, he borrowed from both
Judaism and Christianity and proclaimed himself the new prophet or
Messiah of the one God and made known the New Revelation, which was
embodied in the Koran. The faith of Islam, as preached by Muhammed and
practised by him and his followers, was essentially one of proselytising by
force. “The sword,” he taught, “is the key of Heaven and Hell. A drop of
blood shed in the cause of God, a night spent in arms, avails more than two
months of fasting and prayer. Whoso falls in battle his sins are forgiven. At
the Day of Judgment his wounds shall be resplendent with vermilion and
odoriferous as musk, and the loss of limbs shall be supplied by angels’
wings.”
Muhammed’s self-imposed task of subjugating and uniting Arabia for
the Arabians was begun after his flight from Mecca to Medina, the
celebrated Hejira (Arab hijra) which occurred on the Jewish Day of
Atonement, Sept. 30, A.D. 622. The further work of conquering the countries
on which the Arab tribes had been dependent, Syria, Abyssinia, Persia, was
continued by his followers.
Of great importance in the history of architecture was the conquest of
Persia (632-651), for here the Muhammedan influence developed a style
that was distinguished by fine structural as well as aesthetic qualities and
generally developed a beautiful revival of the various arts of decorative
design. And it was Persian Muhammedan that strongly influenced the
architecture of India, where Muhammedan conquest was established about
A.D. 1000.
Meanwhile, the Arabic Muhammedans had founded a dynasty under the
Ommayads with its capital in Damascus and a later one under the Abassids,

whose most celebrated caliph was Haroun-el-Raschid of Bagdad, made
famous by the “Thousand and One Nights.” Conquest was extended
westward, gradually comprising Egypt, the north of Africa, Sicily, and
Spain.
In 1453 the Crescent displaced the Cross in Constantinople.
Yet, notwithstanding the divisions of the Muhammedans and the
immense distances separating them, a unity not only religious but also
intellectual was maintained. The Muhammedans learned rapidly from the
peoples they conquered and established for the diffusion of learning a sort
of university system of travelling scholarships. Aided by Arabic as the
universal language of learning, students journeyed from teacher to teacher,
from the Atlantic to Samarcand, gathering hundreds of certificates. The
education was designed to turn out theologians and lawyers; but theology
included studies in metaphysics and logic, and the canon law required a
knowledge of arithmetic, mensuration, and practical astronomy.
Technical education was maintained by gilds who perpetuated the
“mysteries” of the craft through a system of apprenticeships. And it is to be
noted that there was no distinction made between so-called arts and so-
called crafts. The gild-system covered all kinds of constructive work from
engineering to the making of a needle, and if the work permitted elements
of beauty and decoration these were, as a matter of course, included. Hence
the proficiency and inventiveness and exquisite perfection of workmanship
displayed by the Muhammedan craftsmen.
But their Koran enjoined a literal obedience to the Mosaic law against
“the making of any graven image, or the likeness of anything that is in
Heaven above or in the earth beneath or in the waters under the earth.”
Accordingly, there were no sculptors or painters in the full sense of the
term; only decorators of moulded, engraved, or coloured ornament, the
motives of which were confined to conventionalised flower and leaf forms
and to geometric designs of practically endless variations of the straight line
and curve, in meander, interlace, and fret, into which they often wove texts
from the Koran or the sacred name of Allah. It is to these designs by Arab
artists, influenced to some extent by Byzantine, that the term arabesque was
first applied.
Meanwhile it was the practice of Muhammedanism to absorb as far as
possible the traditions of each nation it conquered. Gradually, therefore, the

strictness of its orthodoxy was modified. In Persia, for example, the
representation of animals was permitted in the arts of design, and the
representation of human beings followed.
Similarly, the architectural style of each locality was affected by the
previously existing architecture. The examples which remain are chiefly of
mosques, tombs, houses, and palaces.
The word mosque comes to us through the French mosquée; the Spanish
equivalent is mesquita, while the Arabs call the “place of prostration”—
masjid. The nucleus of every one is the mihrab or niche in a wall, indicating
the kibleh or direction of the Great Mosque at Mecca, with its shrine, the
Kaaba. Beside the mihrab was a pulpit, mimbar, for preaching, and
sometimes in front of it, for the reading of the Koran, stood a dikka or
platform raised upon columns. Shelter for the worshippers was provided by
arcades, which in the immediate vicinity of the mihrab were often enclosed
with lattice work, thus forming a prayer-chamber—maksura. The size of the
mosque was indefinitely enlarged by the addition of more arcades,
surrounding usually an open court, in the centre of which, as in the atrium
of the Early Christian basilicas, was a fountain for ritual ablution.
The tomb was usually distinguished by a dome and during the lifetime of
its founder served the purpose of a pleasure-house; corresponding
somewhat to the Roman nymphæum, and, as in the case of the Taj Mahal,
set in the midst of a beautiful system of gardens, water-basins, and terraces.
In his house also the Muhammedan jealously guarded his domestic
privacy. He followed the Romans in leaving the exterior of his house plain,
while centering all its luxury and comfort around an open interior court.
Special quarters were provided for the women and the seclusion of their
lives within the harem led to two features which are characteristic of
Oriental houses, the balcony and the screen. That the occupants might take
the air, balconies were built out from the walls both of the court and the
exterior; and screened with lattice work, on the designs of which great skill
and beauty were expended.
The palaces represented the extension of the house-plan by the addition
of halls of ceremony. Sometimes, as in the case of the Alhambra, they
combined the character of a citadel, and were always generously supplied
with water, as well for the ablutions enjoined in the Koran, as for purposes
of beauty. The Arabs, in fact, readily learned the Roman methods of

engineering and hydraulics and in their houses and cities and in the
irrigation of land carried the system to a high degree of perfection.
The system by which learning and culture circulated throughout the
Muhammedan world was illustrated in the spread of the arts of design.
Persia, for example, was a centre of the ceramic art, and wherever the
Muhammedan civilisation spread, the art of pottery was revived and took
on new and distinctive splendour. Enamel colours of the purest tones and
finest translucence were developed and the glazes were distinguished by
extraordinary lustre. They were lavished not only on vessels of practical
service but also on tiles for the decoration of walls.
With equal originality the Muhammedan artists developed the metal
crafts both in the direction of tempering the metal and in its decoration;
introducing and carrying to a wonderful pitch of perfection the engraving,
encrusting and inlaying of the surfaces with ornamental designs; a process
known as damascening, since Damascus was the earliest important centre of
the craft.
Further, in weaving they developed a corresponding skill and feeling for
design. Rugs and carpets, laid on the floor or spread over doorways, were
the chief furnishing of a Muhammedan home, while a small rug was carried
by the worshipper or his servant to the Mosque to protect his bare feet while
he prayed. These “prayer rugs” were frequently embellished with a
representation of a mihrab, enclosed in borders bearing Koran texts, and
were of silk of finest weave; that is to say, with an extraordinary number of
knots to the square inch. There is a fragment of silk weave in the Altman
collection at the Metropolitan Museum, of Indian craftsmanship, each
square inch of which embraces 2500 knots.
In a way, however, the very exquisiteness of Muhammedan
craftsmanship prepared the way for its decay. It originated in the limitation
of motives permitted to the decorator, who in consequence had to satisfy his
love of perfection by resort to delicacies and intricacies of design beyond
which there was no further possibility of creative invention.
CHAPTER IV
MUHAMMEDAN ARCHITECTURE

The Koran prescribed that every believer when praying should face toward
Mecca. This could be done as readily in the open desert as in a building, so
the early mosques were probably of little importance. It was only as the
Arab tribesmen extended their conquests to the neighbouring civilisations
and came in touch with the temples of antiquity and the churches of the
present, that they began to raise handsome places of worship for their own
religion.
As Muhammedanism spread eastward through Syria to Persia and later
to India and westward into Egypt, along the northern shore of Africa into
Spain and finally occupied Constantinople and Turkey, it absorbed much of
the civilisation of each country and employed the constructive methods, the
workmen, and the materials which it found ready to hand. Consequently,
the architectural expression of Muhammedanism, while retaining
everywhere certain essential characteristics, varies locally. It offers notable
distinctions according as it is found in Syria, Persia, India, Egypt, Spain,
and Turkey.
Mosque of Mecca.—The Great Mosque of Mecca, called by Moslems
the Haram El Masjid el Haram, or Baisullahi el Haram, the “House of God,
the Prohibited,” represents a succession of additions, extending from early
Muhammedan times to the middle of the sixteenth century. It comprises an
enclosure, 300 yards square, the walls of which are pierced with nineteen
gateways and
MOSQUE OF EL AZHAR, CAIRO
Showing Egyptian Types of Minarets

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